


punch drunk

by ninata



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, endgame spoilers, pain play, pregame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninata/pseuds/ninata
Summary: Was he broken? Were they both broken? Were they sick? Were they monsters? (read beginning notes for warnings)





	punch drunk

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhuuuu commenters were like "thanks for the great pregame saiou! i love your work!" and i write THIS  
> warnings for: physical violence (ie slapping and hitting), consensual pain play, saihara getting his shit beat, a couple of references to extreme violence/body horror in ouma's fantasies, internalized homophobia, delicious cruel irony, suicide pacts as always, gotta always shove in the suicide pacts, i am powered by the strangest headcanons

Saihara seemed to be full of bright ideas. His suggestions never failed to scare Kokichi out of his wits, along with sparking something in his pants that he was too ashamed to vocalize. Today was no exception.

After a strangely specific shopping trip for first aid supplies, coming home, and making out for what could’ve been an hour, Saihara whispered it into Kokichi’s ear.

“I want you to hit me.”

For a great portion of their sex life, it was Kokichi taking the pain. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought, fantasized, or even jacked off to the concept of hurting Saihara too, but…

“S-Saihara-kun, are you...serious?”

Kokichi hated, above everything, putting himself first. Prioritizing his feelings, desires...putting himself in a position of control...it felt wrong, if only because he’d had all of the inclinations for it beaten out of him. Saihara had a knack for igniting old flames of feeling in Kokichi, but…

Even so, this scared him. Not because of the fear of injury, Kokichi wasn’t that strong. But him...in charge? That was the implication, right?

“I trust you,” Saihara said, a hand skirting down Kokichi’s back to his ass, another brushing hair out of his eyes. “I want to hurt too, Ouma-kun. Y-You understand, don’t you?”

Of course he did. He’d be an idiot not to understand.

“I-I guess if you're sure…" Kokichi also knew that trying to change Saihara's mind was nigh impossible. "What...do you want me to do, then..?"

“You can stay on top of me. I’ll, um...touch myself, and you can just hit me.”

“Just...hit you?”

“Yeah. Like, in the face.” The unnaturally gentle smile on Saihara’s face twisted something in Kokichi’s gut. He shifted a little in place, swallowing thickly.

“What if you want me to stop?” Kokichi asked, his hands in loose grip on either of Saihara’s shoulders.

“I’ll…” Saihara thought for a moment. “I’ll pull your left hand twice. How’s that?”

That seemed fine. Kokichi was still uneasy, but…

“It’ll be fine. I’m sure Ouma-kun will like it, too.”

There was some changing of position. Saihara pulled out his hand lotion, pulled his pants down and put a generous glob in his palm. Kokichi sat on his stomach, staring down at him. They were doing this, weren’t they? He wasn’t sure what he felt. Anxious? Excited?

“...Go ahead. You can do it.” Saihara licked his lips. “Just imagine I’m someone you hate.”

Kokichi shook his head. “I-I could never imagine you as someone I hated…”

Saihara paused.

“...Then imagine me as who you love, and hurt me.”

Something about those words struck Kokichi. His heart, already racing with disgusting anticipation, picked up its pace.

He pulled back his hand and slapped Saihara across the face. They both flinched, the smack reverberating in the small apartment.

“I-I’m so sorry—“

“More.” Saihara said, pleadingly. He was still smiling. Kokichi couldn’t say no to that, right?

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

By the time his hand closed into a fist, Saihara’s face was turning bright red, whether from the impact of Kokichi’s hand or what. It felt...good. It looked nice. Saihara opened his mouth, probably to coax him into action, and Kokichi drove his fist right into Saihara’s nose.

Saihara’s body rocked forward, a gasp clawing its way out of his mouth and into the air. Kokichi was scared, he was so scared, scared of just how  _ good  _ this felt. He pulled back again, hitting Saihara in the cheek, in the jaw.

He wasn’t sure— he was perfectly sure. He grabbed Saihara by his hair, something that had been done to Kokichi so many times, hating it, hated it. Saihara groaned, Kokichi barely worried he was pulling too hard. He punched him again and again, the satisfying sound of impact adopting a pleasant rhythm. Kokichi’s pants were starting to become uncomfortable, his thoughts becoming fragmented. Feels good. It feels  _ so good  _ to hurt someone. Saihara’s so beautiful. He wants to jerk off. He wants to come onto him like this. 

His knuckles made contact with Saihara’s nose again, and this time something warm immediately flooded the cracks in his fingers. A gush of red joined the flushed skin, red, so much of it. Kokichi tugged Saihara’s hair until his head tilted enough for him to see that red well.

Saihara’s body arched, shuddered. He heard the unmistakable splatter, Saihara moaning Kokichi’s name in ecstasy. 

Kokichi let him go.

So many thoughts, none of them coherent. Beautiful red, purpling skin, spit running down Saihara’s lips, chin, neck, the red blood joining it.

“Why’d you stop—?”

Kokichi mashed their lips together. Tasted like metal, tasted like blood. He was instantly repulsed— a wave of queasiness overcoming him— but even then, it couldn’t beat out the desire in the pit of his stomach, snaking its way throughout his body, talons of heat rising from his crotch and sinking into his jaw.

But he couldn’t kiss him forever. He was getting worried again, mainly because the blood hadn’t stopped flowing. He pulled back, marveling at how Saihara’s face had swollen.

“We need to…” Kokichi swallowed. “Let me get some ice. I’m so sorry.”

"That...was so  _ great."  _ Saihara was slurring a bit, grinning. Blood was starting to seep into the couch cushions. Kokichi climbed off of him, waddling over to the freezer. He was still hard, but he'd worry about that later. Grabbed what he needed.

It took a great deal of tissues and wet rags to clean up the mess of blood, but soon enough, Saihara was sitting upright, wads of tissue in his nose, an ice pack against his cheek. He was still grinning like before, almost deliriously.

"...Are you sure you're okay?" Kokichi asked, half afraid Saihara would curse him out.

"I'm fantastic." Saihara locked eyes with him, then let them rake down Kokichi's body, stopping at his crotch. Blood rushed to his face— and elsewhere— almost immediately. "What about you?"

"I'm...well…"

"It's a shame. If my face wasn't like this, I could've sucked you off." Kokichi shuffled nervously. "Come here, do you mind if I touch you?"

"No, o-of course not…" Kokichi sat down next to him, undoing his belt and the fly of his pants. Saihara set down his ice pack, taking his lotion back out, licking his lips. His face was all puffy, and Kokichi still couldn't believe it was himself who did it. For the first time in his life he hit someone. He hit someone without holding back, he hit  _ Saihara,  _ and he loved it.

His hips jerked as Saihara's cold hand wrapped around him, a tremor going through his thighs. His hand moved to cover his mouth, trying as usual not to make any sounds. He really hurt him, made him bleed. That red blood was all he could think about. It was so beautiful, everything about Saihara was beautiful, even what he hid inside him. Kokichi thought of cutting Saihara open, of touching the deepest recesses of his body, inside his stomach cavity, his beating heart. His body heaved against Saihara's hand, desperate for that contact. He wanted to recapture that beauty, the way Saihara's face warped itself in pleasure. He wanted to slice him in all the bends of his body, to write his name with the tip of a knife in Saihara's soft skin. He came to the thought of flaying him alive, of bleeding him dry.

Would a normal person feel like this? He had to wonder. Was he broken? Were they both broken? Were they sick? Were they monsters?

For the remainder of the night, Kokichi fussed over Saihara, keeping his bruises cold and bringing him cups of tea. He even set out the futon that night for him, curling up against his chest after they changed into their pajamas.

Every place their bodies touched, Kokichi imagined their skin melting, fusing. Their bodies slowly merging into one. Two people, different, alike. Maybe if they became one person, they'd be whole. They'd be someone happy. Someone normal.

He could tell when Saihara fell asleep. Could hear his breathing even out, albeit whistling slightly. Kokichi was still thinking about that vivid red, the way it felt to hit someone full force and hear them moan in reply.

He resigned himself to an arm pinned under Saihara's waist, his other carefully pulling him closer. Saihara didn't wake easily, so all he did was grumble a little, pressing his face into Kokichi's hair.

How could they have moments like this? Kokichi was just beating the shit out of him, they were both getting off to it. How could Saihara look so peaceful, snore quietly? How could such a mundane scene occur between two boys, two disgusting people that everyone hated?

Was what they felt real? Was this what love was? Possessive, rotting feeling, like he wanted to poke Saihara full of holes with something sharp and fuck every one of them? Like he wanted to stitch their skin together so they'd never have to part ways? 

Was it softer? Like he wanted to tell him that he loved him, and move in with him, wake up every morning in the same futon, fall asleep every night wrapped up in his arms, limbs going numb and breathing in stuffy, warm air, trapped under Saihara's chin?

These feelings were so confusing. None of them agreed with each other, leaving him worse off than he was before thinking it through. He thought of princes and princesses, of soul mates, pretty girls and handsome boys twirling around each other and making promises on the moon. He thought of girls who waited all their lives for boys that never came back from war, of men who pined for women that didn't glance at them twice. He thought of them, he and Saihara, two men who promised their lives to each other, who promised to die in the most flashy, exquisite way.

They weren't what everyone said lovers should be. Is that why they had to die?

He began to drift off, thinking of a world where he and Saihara weren't so horrible. A place where Kokichi was funnier, funner. More exciting, left a stronger impression. Maybe Saihara would be less jaded. Maybe there, they'd be happier. Maybe if they weren't the way they were, they had a chance of living. Maybe he'd want to live, if he were different.

If he were different, maybe Saihara would choose to live the rest of his life with him. Maybe they wouldn't have to die.

He fell asleep thinking such a selfish, horrible thing.

He dreamt of a happier world.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for the read as usual! or not, if no one reads this and i've finally gone and done the worst thing i've written yet. sometimes...You just....have to cope. this is coping  
> i know everyone loves bottom ouma and so do i but i also, hm. Want...saihara's shit to get wrecked. i'm sorry. i'm the fan in the end of the game who was like "i want to eat shuuichi's eyeballs <3"  
> hopefully this will please the gorehounds out there reading my stuff, hopefully i will die. no betas, we die like men (i was too embarrassed to ask anyone)


End file.
